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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128622">My Dear Watson</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irene_LeClaire/pseuds/Irene_LeClaire'>Irene_LeClaire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, No Smut, POV Alternating</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:01:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,356</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irene_LeClaire/pseuds/Irene_LeClaire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots for various ships in the Sherlock fandom. The main ships I'll be writing about include- Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Greg, and Irene/Molly. These are my favourite ships, but I would be more than happy to write about others if they are suggested! I normally write these to get the creative process rolling when working on other works, so updates will be irregular. I hope you enjoy them! :)</p>
<p>P.S - I am nowhere near a professional writer and do all of this out of personal enjoyment. That doesn't mean I don't want to improve, however. Constructive criticism is always welcome!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Irene Adler/Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sherlock/John- Nightmare (p.I)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John had managed to find a small lake amongst all the chaos taking place around him. He hadn't bothered with stripping down before walking in, even leaving his boots on. The only thing he left on the shoreline was his gun and a trail of scarlet drops before hastily stumbling into the water.</p>
<p>The lake made him an easy target and seemed uncharacteristically cold in contrast to the warm weather. Whether the exposure got to him first or a bullet did, staying in there too long certainly posed a safety risk.<br/>
But John couldn't find it in him to care. </p>
<p>He just had to get it off.</p>
<p>He hurriedly thrust his arms shoulder-deep into the frigid water, ignoring the trembling in his limbs as he frantically scrubbed at them with his knuckles. He watched with a morbid sense of relief as the water around him slowly turned pink, the hue growing darker and darker with every second his sleeves stayed submerged.</p>
<p>The sounds of battle continued to ring all around him. Gunshots rang out constantly, a deadly staccato that seemed to never let up, alongside screams from both sides. Occasionally he'd even see a bullet find it's way into the lake, darting a few feet beside him or just past his head before hitting the water. But none of that seemed to really matter. It was distant, far away, a matter that didn't immediately demand his attention. The task at hand was all too consuming.</p>
<p>It was only when the whole lake was red, when wave after wave of faint crimson started lapping at the pebbly shore, that he let his movements grind to a halt.</p>
<p>His raw fingers pulsed in protest as he finally lifted his arms up to inspect them, a shaky sigh escaping his lips as he saw all the stains on his sleeves were gone. He took the time to peel off the latex gloves he'd also neglected to take off, letting them sink below the crimson surface of the lake. As he watched them slowly drift further and further down, he could feel his chin begin to tremble and his eyes started to burn with unshed tears.</p>
<p>Day in and day out, blood seemed to be all he saw. It's to be expected, given his line of work, but seeing it come out of his patients was one thing. Seeing it on himself afterwards was a different matter. </p>
<p>It didn't matter how many people he successfully treated in a day. All he could think about were those he couldn't save; every time he glanced down at his uniform, the aftermath of their last moments stared right back at him. </p>
<p>The most he could do was wash the stains out and carry onward, but it was getting harder and harder to do that every day. Besides, uniforms were one matter, but his hands were another. </p>
<p>No amount of washing would do anything to remedy the ever-growing stains on his hands. </p>
<p>" I'm sorry," John's voice was thick, it's uneven timbre echoing back at him.</p>
<p>" I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."</p>
<p>John raised an arm to his face, mopping at his tear-stained cheeks with one of the soaked cuffs of his sleeves. It was only when he took in a quick breath that he realized his mistake. He froze, his body going completely stiff.</p>
<p>He could still smell it. The antiseptic, the dirty dressings, the blood.</p>
<p>The blood.</p>
<p>He could still smell it. It was still there.</p>
<p>He shoved his arms back in the water, the knots building up in his chest as he raked his hands up and down his sleeves.</p>
<p>He could see brown hair clinging to the solider's forehead in sweaty clumps, the uneven rise and fall of his chest grinding to a halt, the way his empty hazel eyes glazed over when the life left his body.</p>
<p>He pushed even harder, ignoring his protesting fingers and his rapidly bluing lips.</p>
<p>He had reduced his sleeves to tatters, but couldn't seem to stop. He continued to scour his own forearms, feeling his nails tear into his flesh over and over. None of his efforts seemed to make a difference.</p>
<p>He could still smell it. </p>
<p>He wouldn't stop until it was completely gone, even if it meant stripping himself to the bone.</p>
<p>Get off, get off, get off-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John Watson awoke with a start, his breathing jagged and desperate as his eyes blindly darted around his room. He forced himself to stay calm, sucking in harsh breaths as he let his head sink back into his pillow.</p>
<p>It was a dream, he thought to himself, wiping the sweat off his forehead.<br/>
Just a dream.</p>
<p>He turned his gaze to the alarm clock on his nightstand, his throat still tight as he gradually got his breathing under control. Every time the 03:04 flashed back at him, he could feel his heart sink a little deeper in his chest.</p>
<p>Although the nightly torment had only started up again a month or two ago, John felt like he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept soundly through the night.</p>
<p>Every time he awoke from a nightmare, all he could do was calm himself down and wait for the sun to come up. He could never let himself drift back to sleep because oftentimes the dream was lurking just beneath his eyelids. It would stalk him like a lion hunting its prey, just waiting for him to nod off before striking.</p>
<p>He dragged a hand across his haggard face before propping his pillow up behind him, settling back on it as he gazed up at the ceiling blankly. He used to pass the time by conjuring up pictures with the cracks and chips in the off-white paint, making brilliant scenes of things like twisting trees or ladies with billowing skirts.</p>
<p>But it was growing harder to keep the pictures innocent. What were once trees were now distant explosions, large clouds of dust and debris towering over the horizon of a small city. The very picture seemed to quake, still shaking from the aftermath of the explosives.</p>
<p>The looks on the women's faces, once elegant and unbothered, were suddenly pinched and grief-stricken. The ceiling was most definitely white, but just for a moment it seemed they were wearing black, and the moulding on the side of the wall almost passed as the edge of a coffin.</p>
<p>A coffin of someone he couldn't save.</p>
<p>Keeping a blank stare, not letting himself sleep or draw pictures only his eyes could see or even think, was easier to stomach.</p>
<p>John laid there in silence, taking note of the sun slowly crawling into his room, before the blare of his alarm clock brought him back.</p>
<p>He tossed the sheets off his body, haphazardly swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He sat<br/>
\there for a moment, his fingers lingering on the sheets. If only he could close his eyes, let himself slip away for just a little while. Oh, how blissful a few more minutes of sleep could prove to be-</p>
<p>John scowled to himself.</p>
<p>He shook his head, getting to his feet as he reached for the robe draped over his bedpost.</p>
<p>Later that day, John found himself crammed into a small car alongside Sherlock, their shoulders squeezed together. John was leaned against the cool glass of his window, watching the bland scenery pass by outside. The forest surrounding them had long since bled into nothing more than a collection of indistinguishable browns and greens, the sky behind them a dark grey that lingered after them from London.</p>
<p>The whole world seemed to be working against him. With the purr of the engine softly humming all around him and the simple act of staring out a window enough to make him zone out, John was sure the already lengthy ride ahead of them was going to drag on even longer. He could already feel his eyelids getting heavy.</p>
<p>He sat up a little straighter in his seat, blinking a few times in an attempt to clear his fogged mind.</p>
<p>" Hey, Sherlock."</p>
<p>The man in question eyed him from the side, waiting for him to continue.</p>
<p>" How much longer do you think it'll take us to get to Grendell?"</p>
<p>" Probably an hour and a half, but with the rain, I'd say two."</p>
<p>" Rain?"</p>
<p>" Although it was forecasted otherwise, the clouds are telling me so. Just look at them."</p>
<p>John spared another glance out the window, nearly getting sucked back into the mind-numbing void. He shook his head, tearing his gaze away before he could.</p>
<p>" Yeah, I suppose you're right."</p>
<p>Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.</p>
<p>" It'll be over soon enough, though. I know these are rather cramped quarters."</p>
<p>He leaned further towards his side of the car, his elbow still in John's side as he fumbled for something in his pocket.</p>
<p>" A cab would've been far more preferable..."</p>
<p>" Yeah, but fare for a ride so long would've cost an arm and a leg. Besides, the Yard was offering anyway."</p>
<p>John shrugged.</p>
<p>" It would've been rude to refuse."</p>
<p>Sherlock smirked to himself, his phone now in his grasp as his thumbs rapidly danced across his screen. John rolled his eyes in response, the corner of his lips turning up.</p>
<p>" Or at least I thought it would've been rude to refuse."</p>
<p>" I figured as such."</p>
<p>He shut the phone off and slid it back in his pocket, folding his hands neatly in his lap. Although Sherlock wasn't directly looking at John, the ex-soldier could feel his gaze burning into him. He glanced over to find an unreadable expression on the detective's face, his fingers slowly drumming against his hand.</p>
<p>John could practically feel the question in the air, but he wasn't sure why Sherlock was hesitant to ask it. He turned fully to face him, his eyebrows knitting together.</p>
<p>" What is it?"</p>
<p>Sherlock glanced over, a politely puzzled expression on his face.</p>
<p>" Hmm?"</p>
<p>" Something's on your mind, what's up?"</p>
<p>" Nothing, nothing. I'm just thinking about the case- a woman drowning on dry land is something worth mulling over, wouldn't you agree?"</p>
<p>John held his stare, his lips pressing themselves into a thin line.</p>
<p>" I suppose. But I don't think that's the only thing."</p>
<p>" Well, I quite do."</p>
<p>" Are you sure?"</p>
<p>" Yes."</p>
<p>There was no point in arguing; if Sherlock didn't want to talk, he wasn't going to. John sunk further into his chair, leaning his head back so that he was staring at the ceiling of the car.</p>
<p>The pair sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, nothing breaking it save for the occasional rattle of the car. John could feel his eyelids starting to droop again, much to his annoyance. He made a fist, digging his nails into his palm to help keep himself awake.</p>
<p>He could feel Sherlock shift slightly beside him.</p>
<p>" This morning in the kitchen," he started suddenly.</p>
<p>" It's... those muscle cramps seem to be getting worse, don't they?"</p>
<p>" Oh, it's not that big of a deal. I just need to start incorporating more potassium is all... were you really that concerned?"</p>
<p>" No, not really."</p>
<p>He glanced out the window blankly.</p>
<p>" But it was the right one, not the left," he said softly to himself, his fingers going still.</p>
<p>" That makes it curious."</p>
<p>" Look, if this is your odd way of asking me to add bananas to the shopping list-"</p>
<p>John was interrupted by a sharp ping from Sherlock's phone. The man quickly snatched it up, their conversation left forgotten as he read a text.</p>
<p>" Took Lestrade long enough," he said, a smile spreading across his face.</p>
<p>He downloaded a file attached to the text, quickly skimming over its contents.</p>
<p>" What's that?"</p>
<p>" A report from two months ago. A custodian was found drowned in the locker room of an aquatics centre he worked at, but he wasn't in the showers or anything. They found him on a bench. The whole thing was ruled a freak accident, even though I felt otherwise."</p>
<p>He scrolled back up to the first page.</p>
<p>" Now they have reason to believe me, given recent events."</p>
<p>" Do you think these might be connected somehow?"</p>
<p>" I'm considering it, yes. I just need more details before I can be sure, though."</p>
<p>With that, Sherlock started reading the report in earnest, his attention glued to the phone in his hands. His lips moved along with his eyes, a hushed chant John had to strain to hear. He'd previously told John that saying what he read aloud helped him retain data easier, especially when they were on the move.</p>
<p>John knew that would be the end of any conversation for some time, as Sherlock tended to get quite occupied when he was 'downloading' information.</p>
<p>He resumed his examination of the ceiling, noting a few faded smoke stains here and there, as he half-listened to Sherlock's soft ramblings.</p>
<p>Maybe he should've clenched his fist a little tighter, or stopped his gaze from settling in one place for too long. Maybe he should've ignored his fatigue and done something to keep himself moving, whether it be drumming his fingers on the seat or crossing his leg every now and then.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or maybe he should've even tried to tune out Sherlock's voice, his incoherent mumblings acting as a constant source of... solace, almost. A deep-pitched anchor that was constantly present, no matter where his mind wandered.</p>
<p>Regardless of what he should've done, John Watson was sure of only one thing. One minute he was staring at the ceiling, listening as the first sign of rain gently patted across the car's windshield. By the next, everything seemed to have long since melted into darkness.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>A sudden jolt of the car is what initially woke him up. He didn't even bother to open his eyes, he merely stirred against whatever he was leaning on before rapidly starting to slip back under. He could almost hear the ocean, the gentle tug and pull of the waves resounding around him. A small part of his brain knew that couldn't be right, though, as they were nowhere near a beach. It was only when the sounds briefly stopped as someone cleared their throat that John realized...</p>
<p>The steady rise and fall he was hearing wasn't coming from an ocean.</p>
<p>No, it was breathing. And not his own breathing either, but rather someone else's.</p>
<p>The realization was enough to make John blearily crack open his eyes, his head groggily turning this way and that so he could figure out what was going on. He was surprised to find resting against Sherlock's side, his cheek pressed snuggly against the man's shoulder. He glanced up slightly to see Sherlock with his fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed in thought.</p>
<p>He was still awake, then.</p>
<p>John could feel his ears burn as he abruptly sat up, righting himself in his seat. He was thrashing about in his sleep, letting out all kinds of whimpers and cries, he was sure of it. Even if he wasn't, his teeth had to have been grinding up a storm. He always did that when he got anxious-</p>
<p>Before he could fret further, a straggling thought caught his attention. One that made him touch his jaw tentatively, surprised to discover it wasn't sore like it usually was after a round of senseless gnashing.</p>
<p>What did I dream?</p>
<p>He couldn't conjure up any fading images of injured soldiers, or bloodied corpses, or even the faint sound of hot shells hitting the ground. He couldn't feel that familiar sense of dread laying heavy in his stomach, and after a quick swipe of his forehead, he realized he wasn't sweating, either.</p>
<p>All he could remember was the ocean, perhaps even the hint of someone whispering, which could only mean one thing. </p>
<p>There wasn't a dream. More importantly, there wasn't a nightmare.</p>
<p>A sharp inhale pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned to face the source of it, only to see Sherlock staring straight ahead, his eyes suddenly open.</p>
<p>" Ah, we're finally here then," he commented, his hands lowering.</p>
<p>John glanced out his window and, sure enough, the car was getting closer and closer to a block of flats. He could make out a few police cars stationed outside it, yellow hazard tape blocking off the general public. It was crawling with all kinds of personnel, ranging from neatly dressed investigators to plastic-wrapped forensic specialists, several of whom were talking lowly amongst each other. </p>
<p>Judging by the baffled looks on their faces, they were at a loss.</p>
<p>" It was a good idea to take a nap, John. We'll be busy here for a little while, it looks like," Sherlock commented, an excited gleam in his eye.</p>
<p>" I- it wasn't my attention to fall asleep," John muttered, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.</p>
<p>" And you could've just shoved me off, you know. I wouldn't have noticed."</p>
<p>" I had my hands full, it simply wasn't worth the effort."</p>
<p>" You had your hands full doing what?"</p>
<p>" Thinking."</p>
<p>John shook his head as the car came to a complete stop just outside the building, shuddering slightly as the driver clambered out and shut his door behind him.</p>
<p>" Thinking- really, Sherlock? If anyone saw us, they'd surely talk..."</p>
<p>" No, they wouldn't."</p>
<p>John's door swung open, revealing the smiling face of their ageing driver.</p>
<p>" Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," he greeted, tipping his cap.</p>
<p>John exited the car, thanking the man as he went, Sherlock following suit not too long after. He soon found himself struggling to keep up with the detective as they made their way towards the crime scene, his shorter stature no match for the man's long strides. It didn't help that he seemed to get quicker and quicker the closer they got to the building.</p>
<p>He was enamoured, but that much was to be expected. It had been nearly four days since their last interesting case, so the man was on the brink of insanity before Lestrade finally called them with something.</p>
<p>John was feeling a bit euphoric himself, but not necessarily over the idea of a potential serial killer. Today could've been a coincidence, sure. Maybe he'd not been in a deep enough sleep to have a dream, or by dumb luck, he just hadn't had a nightmare. But if not... </p>
<p>He could feel his chest lighten slightly, his fists curling determinedly at his side. </p>
<p>He'd have to make something of it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Sherlock/John- Nightmare (p.II)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rain had long since died down by the time they'd left the crime scene in Grendell. It would have made the car trip back all the more bearable, but John wasn't going to fight himself to stay awake. He let his eyes close, focusing on nothing more than the sound of Sherlock's breathing and the rumble of the motor. He drifted off within minutes.<br/>

He found himself once more suspended in inky blackness, but he wasn't panicking about that. If anything, the darkness was almost comforting. It made him focus on the soft lull of waves pushing and pulling against the beach, the water lapping up at his calves before retracting back out into the open sea. The feeling calmed him in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on.<br/>

Even the ghost of a breeze seemed to dance across his face. It came and went, came and went, came and went, softly kissing the bridge of his nose with every gust. Rather than being accompanied by the expected scents of salt and tide, however, he started picking up hints of something else. Something familiar, something like lavender-</p><p>" John."<br/>

He became aware of something tapping his shoulder.<br/>

" John. We're here."<br/>

He sat up in a daze, once again from Sherlock's shoulder, dragging his hand across his face. His fingers grazed over his cheek, the folds in Sherlock's coat imprinted on his skin.<br/>

" M' sorry, what?"<br/>

" We're back. On Baker's Street."<br/>

" Oh. Right, right. Let's move along then."<br/>

Just like last time- no carnage, no bloodshed. John meandered out of the car, blindly giving the driver an appreciative wave. He paused briefly to knuckle the sleep out of his eyes.<br/>

No Nightmares.<br/>

Sherlock popped his head out from around their building's front door, a frown on his face.<br/>

" John, are you coming inside or not?"<br/>

" Yes- I'm right behind you!"<br/>

As John laid in bed that night, staring blankly out his bedroom window, his mind felt like it was racing at a million miles an hour. How was he going to implement this information? Could he cook up a plan to somehow make use of this advantage?<br/>

He wasn't sure.<br/>

He sat up in bed, resting his chin on his fist. For tonight, at least, he could escape the dreams- he'd slept long enough in the car to pull through tomorrow. But he would have to figure out how to sneak in naps around Sherlock more often. That was certainly going to be a task.<br/>

Or so he thought.<br/>

A few mornings later, John found himself sleepily tracing the top of his mug as he skimmed over the paper.<br/>
Occasionally, he'd eye Sherlock's plate to monitor what all he'd eaten. On his better days, Sherlock remembered to at least nibble on an apple or a bag of crisps. Once a case was involved, or if he was having a bit of a tantrum, it was as if he only ate when the growling of his stomach became too distracting.  Unfortunately for both of them, Sherlock was in the middle of the later.<br/>

John knew for sure his friend had hardly even looked at the pad thai they'd ordered for dinner last night. Breakfast seemed as though it would be going the same route, as so far his meagre piece of toast was left untouched.<br/>

After about ten minutes or so, he let out a defeated sigh.<br/>

" Eat something," he said, not looking up from his paper.<br/>

" I will."<br/>

" Not at this rate you won't. It's getting cold."<br/>

Silence echoed back at him for a few moments.<br/>

" It is dreadfully boring in this flat, wouldn't you agree?"<br/>

John glanced up from the paper in his hands, his gaze settling on Sherlock. He stood motionless by the window, watching the foot traffic just outside their flat with a hand on his chin. He tended to gravitate there when he was thinking, so it wasn't too out of the unordinary for him to blankly people-watch for extended periods.<br/>

" Don't try to change the subject-"<br/>

" I can feel my synapses firing less and less with every minute we spend in here doing nothing."<br/>

" Well, now you're just being dramatic."<br/>

" But I'm not. The brain is a muscle at the end of the day- if you neglect to use it, atrophy is destined to set in."<br/>

" It's only been one day since our last case. Stop moping and eat your breakfast."<br/>

Sherlock ignored him, the gloomy air around him seeming to darken. After a few moments, he spoke again<br/>

" Perhaps Molly could sneak me a few femurs from the morgue. I've been meaning to observe how long it takes for fire to begin splitting the bone..." he murmured to himself.<br/>

" I think her supervisors are still upset about your riding crop experiments, so I'd highly doubt it."<br/>

" And I checked on the mould spores only fifteen minutes ago, so I have to wait a bit on those."<br/>

" You still have those? I thought I told you to take them out of the fridge!"<br/>

" Hush. We hardly use the fridge, anyway."<br/>

John rolled his eyes, taking a moment to glance at his watch.<br/>

" We've still got an hour before we have to meet Lestrade. How about you try something you haven't done before? Like, knitting or something?" John suggested, leaning back further in his seat.<br/>

" Knitting, John?"<br/>

" Okay, okay. Bad idea. Why not watch some telly? I heard they're in the middle of an Office marathon."<br/>

" Watching an office marathon sounds even more tedious than learning to knit."<br/>

" Well, I think the show's alright. Took Jim and Pam bloody forever to get together, though."<br/>

" Who?"<br/>

" You know, the secretary and the salesman?"<br/>

Sherlock turned to look at John, his face blank.<br/>

" Wait a minute. You mean to tell me you've never watched The Office?"<br/>

Sherlock stayed quiet. It was answer enough.<br/>

" I guess I can't say I'm honestly surprised."<br/>

" It must be a pop culture thing, then. Interesting."<br/>

Sherlock turned to look back at the window, his fingers now steepled beneath his chin. He was actually contemplating something, John realized. Somehow their brief discussion on the TV show had gotten the gears turning.<br/>

" Eat your toast before you start thinking. Didn't you say digestion meddles with-"<br/>

John was cut off by a raised hand.<br/>

" It's too late for that. I need to start researching as soon as possible."<br/>

John gave up on his paper and lowered it on the table, running a hand through his short hair.<br/>

" Oh goodness. You can't be serious."<br/>

" Yes. Now that it's been brought to my attention, I'm certain the video store down the block has the first few seasons of The Office for sale. I wonder if they still have them..."<br/>

" If that's what you want to do, by all means."<br/>

" I need your help, too."<br/>

" Huh? Why?"<br/>

" You're more educated on these matters than I am, so you could be of assistance," he said.<br/>

Sherlock crossed the room in three strides, mumbling the address of the store to himself as he reached to grab his coat and scarf off the coat hook. John's knee-jerk reaction was to be annoyed. He figured with all the potential clients piling up in their inbox, Sherlock could have been making better use of their time. If he was as bored as he claimed, taking a few cases he considered to be a little dull should've been enough to remedy the situation.<br/>

Not sitting at home watching The Office. He hardly liked watching television, anyway.<br/>

Speaking of which, the last thing he needed was to sit on the couch and do nothing. He wasn't exactly well-rested, so he'd surely fall asleep. Sleep meant nightmares and nightmares were something he didn't want to put up with-<br/>

John's eyes widened, the hand reaching for his mug faltering, as he came to a sudden realization. This could be just what he was looking for. Sherlock would be sitting there beside him watching the show, too. He'd be relatively quiet, and relatively still, for a pretty good amount of time...<br/>

This was John's chance. The perfect set up was right there in front of him.<br/>

" I have a social life, Sherlock," he protested meekly, followed by a sip of tea.<br/>

" What if I already have something lined up?"<br/>

" There's no need for hypotheticals, you didn't until now. Problem solved."<br/>

" I'm not sitting in here all day just to watch telly."<br/>

" But you are, we just discussed this."<br/>

" No, I'm not."<br/>

Sherlock looked at him and John looked back, trying and failing to keep a stony face. It was hard to keep it up for very long, especially when Sherlock's sharp eyes felt like they were peering into his very soul.<br/>

John broke his gaze with a scowl. He didn't have to look to know Sherlock had a triumphant little smirk on his lips.<br/>

" At least eat your breakfast and let me get dressed. Do that and I'll help you."<br/>

" Hmm."<br/>

" And I'm serious. We're not watching The Office all day."<br/>

John grumbled under his breath as he opened up the paper once more, burying himself in a story he had zero interest in. As soon as he heard Sherlock pluck up his toast and head out the front door, however, his frown dropped.<br/>

That very night, John found himself sitting beside Sherlock on the couch. As they waited for their ancient DVD player to sort itself out, Sherlock started explaining what all their 'research' for the night would entail.<br/>
" We'll be getting through eighteen episodes. No more, no less."<br/>

John made a noise of surprise.<br/>

" Do you know how long we'll be sitting here-"<br/>

" A grand total of six hours and twenty-three minutes, yes, I'm well aware. Throughout that time, I'll be working on a spreadsheet for each episode," Sherlock said, his eyes unwavering from the laptop seated on the couch's armrest.<br/>

" It'll be useful in organizing the information I find- you know, what I find interesting, what I expect to be popular. You will fill me in on any further references I don't understand. Capiche?"<br/>

" I'm not exactly an expert, Sherlock..."<br/>

" You know enough."<br/>

" Do you know how many seasons this show has? It's going to take you a lot longer than a week or two to get through the whole thing, especially at this rate. We could be calling back some of the people who have reached out to us, or checking in on past clients, or really anything else more productive. Do you think this is the best course of action?"<br/>

" Yes. We're still carrying on with our general investigations during the day, make no mistake. During the night, we'll just be focusing on The Office."<br/>

He drummed his fingers impatiently against the couch.<br/>

" We need to start moving this along. By the time we've met our goal, I'll have to monitor any changes in the culture samples."<br/>

" Didn't I- are the spores still in the fridge?"<br/>

" Irrelevant question, we're researching right now."<br/>

" How many times have I told you to stop keeping them there?"<br/>

Sherlock opted to press play instead of answering his question, leaving a fuming John Watson beside him on the couch. As they progressed into the first episode, however, John couldn't find it in him to stay mad. The near-constant staccato of Sherlock's fingers tapping across his keyboard and the consistent grumbles under his breath ('Good God, the humour is dry', 'I can see why the first season wasn't so acclaimed by audience members', etc.) were music to his ears. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, his head resting heavily on the couch cushion he had his arms wrapped around. By the time the second episode started up, John was already quietly dozing off.</p><p>Everything was dark, but like the last time, it wasn't an ominous kind of darkness. It was all-encompassing, yes, but in a welcoming way. It was like being enveloped in a hug and having your head nestled into the person's shoulder.<br/>

Aside from his vision, all of his other senses worked just fine.<br/>

He could tell he was sitting in an area with tall grass and pebbles. The grass tickled his arms as it moved gently in the wind, the palms of his hands pressing into the stones beneath him as he reclined back. Somewhere behind him, he could hear what sounded like cloth gently swaying in the breeze.<br/>

He got to his feet and slowly turned himself around, deciding to investigate the source of the sound. He held out his hands and cautiously brought them forward, blindly reaching out until he just came into contact with something. He walked closer so he could get a better grip, his fingers exploring the foreign material in his grasp. It felt like a cotton sheet- soft, light, and still slightly damp from being washed. It made everything around him smell like clean laundry.<br/>

John smiled to himself before releasing the sheet, stooping down to pluck up a stone from the ground. He ran his fingers across it, taking note of the grooves in its smooth surface. He might not have been able to see, but that didn't phase him- if anything, it only added to the experience.<br/>

Besides, he didn't need to see to know where he was. This wasn't another faceless beach or somewhere he'd never been. No, he'd been here before. Many, many times.<br/>

The lakeside.<br/>

His parents used to take Harry and him there during the Summer, often for several weeks at a time. They loved it, but his mother always had her complaints. The property they rented didn't have a washer or dryer for the longest time, as the owners refused to make any renovations to their out-dated cabin. Even most of the light fixtures inside were kerosene lamps or wall-mounted candles. They'd finally caved and had a washing machine installed in the basement (alongside a few fluorescents), but that was it. John's poor mother had to dry their clothes on a line every time they visited.<br/>

Looking back on those trips as an adult, it was easy for him to understand why her expression was always so sour on the drive up.<br/>

He turned away from the clothing line and made his way down the gently sloping hill, his feet carrying him towards a worn dirt path. Although he couldn't see it, he knew the lake was no more than ten yards from where he was standing. He remembered making kites there with Harry, the pair littering the ground with sticks and spare cloth. He also remembered the extreme disappointment that followed when he couldn't get his off the ground; it simply dragged in the dirt behind him as he ran along with it.<br/>

John chuckled to himself, resting his hands in his pockets.<br/>

When they were a bit older, their interest transitioned from kites to bikes. Before even unpacking the rest of their things, they'd unstrap their bikes from the top of the car and race straight for the path. Whoever looped around back to the cabin first was the winner. He could almost hear it now- the click-click-click of his bike chain groaning in protest as he peddled, the teasing trill of his bell as he passed his sister...<br/>



The sound of a refrigerator being shut.<br/>

John's surroundings faded rather quickly and he felt his eyes flutter open, revealing the darkened sitting room of the flat. Not too long after, he could hear the muffled sound of a bedroom door being closed upstairs.<br/>

He sat up from his spot on the couch, leisurely stretching out his arms as he did so. Sherlock's laptop was open on the coffee table, revealing two half-filled spreadsheets. One had information from the show, random time stamps and quotes scattered throughout it. The other contained absorption readings from samples labeled Stachy. #1, #2, and #3 respectively. John rolled his eyes at that.<br/>

" It had to be black mould, of course," he muttered to himself.<br/>

He groggily saved both of the files for him, making a mental note to tell Sherlock off for exposing their flat to black mould, before shuffling himself off to his room. It was nearing four in the morning, meaning he'd only have to wait another two hours or so before getting ready for the day.<br/>

" Six hours," John remarked softly to himself, perching on the edge of his bed.<br/>

Yes, he could work with that.</p><p>Over the course of the next week, 'Research Nights', as John dubbed them, became a regular occurrence. Sherlock stuck to his word and burned through eighteen episodes each sitting while John slept soundly beside him, only occasionally being woken up to clarify something.<br/>

John was most definitely benefiting from the increase in sleep. The bags clinging under his eyes were beginning to lighten, the mental sludge he'd been in for the past while suddenly lifted. He was feeling more and more human with every passing day.<br/>

While that was certainly well and good, it wasn't the only positive thing he noticed.<br/>

Sherlock warmed up to The Office in a remarkably short amount of time. Rather than muttering under his breath for most of it, he actually gave it a chuckle every now and then. The sound was a deep rumble that seemed to roll through the whole couch and ricochet through John's arm or leg or whatever was pressed closest to the man. It was a sound John had only scarcely heard before, but one he quickly grew to enjoy.<br/>

For particularly good episodes, John would even stop himself from immediately clocking out so the pair could pass a few jokes back and forth. He would lay back and soak in Sherlock's laughs, a welcome feeling settling over him. Their Research Nights were quickly becoming one of his favourite things, extending past even his original intentions.<br/>

One Saturday evening, the pair had long since settled down to wrap up season five. Sherlock's phone let off a seemingly endless string of 'ping's from the coffee table, but the man hardly gave it a second glance.<br/>
John, on the contrary, couldn't help but shoot it a dirty look every now and then. He seemed to be right on the edge of sleep every time Sherlock got a notification. The abrupt noise would make his fingernails dig into the palms of his hands, his eyes opening with a start. Just as he wound back down, the ghost of a dream beginning to start up, the cycle would repeat.<br/>

He gave it a particularly hard look as it went off again before looking at Sherlock. His friend's eyes were still intensely focused on the TV screen, his hands flying over the keyboard in his lap.<br/>

" Are you gonna answer that?"<br/>

" No."<br/>

John ignored it, allowing his attention to be slowly drawn back into the show. For a little while, as if it realized it wasn't getting the attention it wanted, the phone went quiet. John gave it a few moments before letting his eyes flutter shut once more, confident that was the end of it...<br/>

The phone buzzed noisily against the coffee table as if to prove him wrong. He sat up from his spot on the couch, now thoroughly annoyed.<br/>

" Maybe you should."<br/>

He merely got a low hum in response, Sherlock's eyes cattily sparing the phone a brief glance.<br/>
" A thirteen text problem isn't worth my-"<br/>

Before he could even finish the sentence, the phone lit up again.<br/>

And again.<br/>

He rolled his eyes as he grudgingly leaned over John to pick up the phone, impatiently scanning the screen once it was in his hands. Suddenly, he grew attentive and he began reading in earnest, slowly sitting up in his seat.<br/>

" I'll be right back."<br/>

" Where are you going?"<br/>

" Nowhere, I'm just expecting a phone call."<br/>

With that, he got to his feet and made his way towards his bedroom, bringing the phone to his ear just as the ringer started to go off.<br/>

Several minutes had passed before Sherlock meandered down the stairs, plopping himself back down in his spot on the couch. He didn't have to say or do anything for John to notice a stark change in his attitude. The whole flat's atmosphere had changed- it was excited but also dampened. Like a firework had been ignited in a thick fog.<br/>

John wriggled his arms free from his blanket cacoon so he could prop himself up, turning to directly face his friend.<br/>

" Is everything alright?"<br/>

He eyed John for a moment, his fingers fiddling with his phone.<br/>

" I suppose."<br/>

" Who was it?"<br/>

" Mycroft."<br/>

" Oh, and you didn't keep on ignoring him? That's quite a step forward."<br/>

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a smirk just hinting at the corners of his lips, before turning his attention back to the TV and unpausing the episode.<br/>

" He prefaced the phone call with some intriguing text messages, so of course I had to pick up. Apparently, the crown has found themselves in a bit of hot water again. Mycroft doesn't have the time nor patience to sort it out himself."<br/>

" That's what has him in such a stir... so his next step was to get in touch with you?"<br/>
Sherlock nodded.<br/>

" Unfortunately."<br/>

" I don't see what's so unfortunate about that."<br/>

" I'll have to indirectly help my brother in order to reap any personal benefit. That's always a pain."<br/>

" You still have the ashtray from Buckingham, right? Maybe you could get another and start a collection?"<br/>

Sherlock seemed to consider the proposal for a moment.<br/>

" Perhaps."<br/>

" So what exactly does he want us to do?"<br/>

Sherlock eyed John, his expression dropping ever so slightly.<br/>

" What? What is it?"<br/>

" There's a case at hand, yes, but it's not for us, per se."<br/>

" It's not? Why'd he bother calling, then?"<br/>

" It's just for me."<br/>

John looked over at him, his eyebrows raised.<br/>

" What?"<br/>

Sherlock repeated himself calmly, his gaze idling over to meet John's.<br/>

" It's just for me. I'm afraid either Mycroft or his higher up's think you could be a hindrance, given the circumstances. He cited your military service as a conflict of interests, your morals as potentially problematic, etcetera etcetera. It was quite grating for those to be the only reasons, but its what he told me nonetheless- "<br/>

" Come on Sherlock, you can't be serious."<br/>

He gave John a look.<br/>

" It wasn't my decision. I made my opinion on the situation quite clear over the phone, but he's set on it. If I bring you, I don't get the case."<br/>

" And you're still going to accept it, aren't you?"<br/>

Sherlock nodded, nothing except the TV left to fill the silence in the room. John scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.<br/>

" Wow."<br/>

" I'm not leaving you with nothing, John. Our current case still needs to be wrapped up, and the Yard is still as incompetent as ever. You're the only person I trust to handle it correctly."<br/>

" But we're... you know, you and me- we're a team. The Yard should be able to handle a lunatic with a screwdriver by themselves. If anything, why couldn't we just finish that together and then focus on the crown?"<br/>

" I've already told you why. Besides, accepting the whole lobotomy situation was your idea. I found the affair to be entirely stale."<br/>

" I still don't like it."<br/>

" This isn't the first time something like this has happened, John. Why do you find it so important now?"<br/>

John crossed his arms, the frown on his face deepening. Sherlock was right, of course. Splitting up was nothing new to the pair. They often did when cases were piling up, or if one of them was sick, or for a scenario where Sherlock stubbornly refused to leave the flat. As far as Sherlock was concerned, there was no reason why it would be problematic.<br/>

" It's not important. It's just... it'll be quiet around here. That's all."<br/>

Sherlock chuckled, his attention returning fully to the TV.<br/>

" Think of it as a vacation, then. And if it really does get that dull, you can always pick up more shifts at the surgery. It's fairly obvious the manager fancies you, so I'm sure she'd be more than happy to pencil you in somewhere."<br/>

" I suppose."<br/>

It would be more punishment than respite to be left alone, but he couldn't ever let his friend know that. There wasn't any getting around it. John cleared his throat, clutching the throw pillow in his arms a little tighter.<br/>

" When do you leave?"<br/>

" Tomorrow."<br/>

" For how long?"<br/>

" As long as it takes. I'll try to keep in touch where I can, but there are no guarantees I'll be able to."<br/>

" Yeah, I know. Just... please be careful."<br/>

" I will."<br/>

John didn't say anything, just continued watching the show. But the situation left a cold weight in his chest that seemed to sink deeper and deeper with every breath he took.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sherlock/John- Nightmare (p.III)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's been a while, everyone! School has sucked the soul out of me since it started, but I found enough free time (and the motivation) to write a little something. I really enjoyed sitting for a bit to type this up, I feel like I forgot how therapeutic writing can be. I hope you all enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John found himself groggily opening his eyes in the brightly-lit flat. He quickly threw up a hand to block the sun streaming in from the living room windows, the bright light sending spots dancing across his vision. Morning came quicker than it usually did, it felt like. He'd somehow slipped off during the night, though he couldn't recall much of a dream...</p>
<p>     He'd just started knuckling the sleep out of his eyes, vaguely wondering where the throw pillow under his head came from, before a buzz sounded from his pocket.</p>
<p>     He slowly propped himself up, stretching out his arm to retrieve the phone with a groan. The first few notifications were from Sherlock's mother. She'd sent a few photos of Rosie running through her back garden, absolutely covered in mud.</p>
<p>                    1 new message: Unofficial Grandmum<br/>                    4 attachments <br/>                    Rosie discovered the sprinkler this morning, bless her. </p>
<p>     He smiled to himself before sending a response, promising to give them another call that evening. As he dismissed the notification and let his eyes lazily roll across the next one, he could feel his hands stiffen.</p>
<p>                    1 new message: Unknown<br/>                    He will be no longer than a week.<br/>                    -MH                 </p>
<p>     John sat up, one hand bracing itself on his knee while the other dragged across his face. Sherlock would be gone.</p>
<p>     " Right."</p>
<p>     He eyed his bedroom door wearily, letting out a defeated sigh. He'd have to face sleep all on his own, which certainly entailed more nightmares. The thought was almost too much to bear. The Research Nights were working splendidly, but he never stopped to consider what to do in the instances where Sherlock had to leave. He desperately needed a course of action. And fast.</p>
<p>     John glanced around the flat as if the walls held an answer to his dilemma. He looked to his right and eyed the wrecked kitchen, his gaze slowly settling on the electric grinder on the counter. An idea popped in his head, one he didn't like, but couldn't necessarily dismiss.</p>
<p>     It wouldn't be a permanent fix, of course, but it would do the job for a few days at most. Throw in only one or two bad nights and Sherlock would be back before he knew it. He could get through this.</p>
<p>     He scowled to himself about how ridiculous it all was but made his way into the kitchen, nonetheless. He picked up a pen off the counter and added another item on the list hanging on the fridge, underlining it for good measure, before shuffling off to the bathroom to get ready for the day.</p>
<p>                    -Butter<br/>                    -Milk<br/>                    -Earl Grey (Loose leaf. Enough with the bags.-SH)<br/>                    -Deionized water<br/>                    -Coffee Beans</p>
<p>     ~</p>
<p>     " And the skin we found under the victim's fingernails?"</p>
<p>     " A definite match," Molly called out from underneath the fume hood, popping out for a moment to read something off of her clipboard. She wrinkled her nose a bit before flipping a few pages over, skipping past pictures of the middle-aged victim's body. </p>
<p>     " I can't say I'm particularly fond of stiletto manicures, but in this instance, I'm glad she had them."</p>
<p>    John looked up from the microscope he was using, allowing himself to recline back a little in his stool.</p>
<p>     " I always figured something was off about the scratch marks on that guy. 'Oh yeah, I got these doing yard work' my arse..."</p>
<p>     " I'm honestly surprised they let that slide. And goodness, lifting the prints on the screwdriver was a nightmare. He did a shoddy job cleaning up, but it was enough to botch the results. It dragged all of this out way longer than necessary."</p>
<p>     " Well, there's no getting out of it this time. There's too much evidence piling up. Anderson will have no choice other than to take him into custody."</p>
<p>   " Here's to hoping. I'll be writing up the report and sending it out as soon as possible."</p>
<p>     John got up from his stool and shrugged on his coat, shooting Molly a smile. </p>
<p>" Be sure to send me a copy of Anderson's response. Sherlock will definitely want to read it."</p>
<p>     Molly exited the fume hood, tightly sliding its glass panel shut behind her. She turned around, giving John a puzzled look from underneath her faceguard.</p>
<p>     " Sherlock doesn't normally bother with the paperwork, you really think he'd want it?"</p>
<p>      " He says he can smell the defeat in Anderson's words every time he admits to being wrong about something. He gets deep satisfaction from it, I suppose." John shook his head.</p>
<p>     "Anyhow, I'd better get going."</p>
<p>     Molly lifted off her mask with a sigh, rubbing at the marks it pressed into her forehead.</p>
<p>     " Actually John, could I, erm... could I talk with you before you leave?"</p>
<p>     John initially wanted to tell her to just call him for anything else she needed help with. He had to grind more coffee beans and wanted to do so before it got dark; his neighbours didn't take too kindly to him switching the grinder on around three in the morning that first night.</p>
<p>     He held his tongue, however, after getting a good look at Molly's face. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her teeth busily worrying her bottom lip. It looked like something was really bothering her. John bit back the huff that threatened to escape his lips as he stepped away from the exit.</p>
<p>     " Yeah, of course."</p>
<p>     He walked over to her lab bench, pulling out a stool beside Molly. </p>
<p>     " What's up?"</p>
<p>     She couldn't quite meet his gaze. She opted to meddle with a few evidence folders instead, mechanically shuffling through their contents. </p>
<p>     " Well, you see... it's... gosh, I've been trying to get it out the whole time you've been here."</p>
<p>     " Is anything wrong, Molly?"</p>
<p>     " What? No, no, nothing's wrong with me. I was just wondering-"</p>
<p>     " If it has to do with Rosie, she's been great. Sherlock's parents are still watching her, I wanted her away from the flat for the Summer so she could experience a bit of normalcy-"</p>
<p>     " Oh, goodness! I completely understand with Rosie, don't be silly. It's actually something concerning you."</p>
<p>     John paused at that, the corners of his mouth slightly dipping down.</p>
<p>     " ... Me?"</p>
<p>     " Yes. For a little while, you haven't really seemed yourself. These past few days, especially. You're more sluggish, and quiet, and not very John Watson at all, if I'm being honest."</p>
<p>     She paused to brush a few eraser shavings off the middle of a toxicology report.</p>
<p>     " It's been nagging at me."</p>
<p>     John found himself wanting to busy his hands with something, too. He glanced down, idly winding and unwinding a loose thread around his coat's zipper. Molly noticed this and abruptly sat up, nearly losing her grip on the papers in her hands. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.</p>
<p>     " Not that I'm trying to speak badly of you or anything, I'm not. You're fine- no, I shouldn't say you're fine. I mean- I still think highly of you, I'm not looking down on- it's just-" Molly sighed, thumping her forehead into the heel of her hand.</p>
<p>     " I'm making a mess of this."</p>
<p>     John chuckled. "Take your time."</p>
<p>     " You're acting off, is what I'm trying to say. Maybe its no big deal and I'm making a fuss, but I... I just want to make sure you're alright."</p>
<p>     She turned to face him, her brown eyes timidly meeting his.</p>
<p>     " Are you alright, John?"</p>
<p>     John stared at her for a moment, his tongue resting heavily in his mouth. Finally, he nodded.</p>
<p>     " Yeah, I'm fine."</p>
<p>     " Are you sure? Because you know you can talk to me about anything, right? Nothing will leave this room if you don't want it to."</p>
<p>     " I know. But really, I'm fine. I've just been having some trouble sleeping, lately. That's it."</p>
<p>     " Is that really all that's going on here?"</p>
<p>     She closed the folder and gave him a look, her eyebrows knitting together.</p>
<p>     " I'm quite certain, yes."</p>
<p>     She was quiet for a moment before nodding her head.</p>
<p>     " I'd suggest giving melatonin pills a try. I used them when I couldn't sleep during my exam seasons, they do the trick."</p>
<p>     " I'll consider it," he said, ignoring the guilty pang running through his chest.</p>
<p>     She gave him a slight smile, tugging lightly on her bottom eyelids.</p>
<p>     " Please do. You look exhausted."</p>
<p>     " It's not that bad, I promise."</p>
<p>     John collected his things before getting up from his seat, bowing his head as he headed towards the door.</p>
<p>     " I appreciate your concern, Molly. Thank you."</p>
<p>     " For sure. Get some rest tonight, okay? And if you get the chance, let Sherlock know I've got a drowning victim waiting for him when he gets back."</p>
<p>     John gave her a wry smile, taking a sip from the coffee in his thermos before leaving the room. He'd much rather be able to relay Molly's message in person, but he still had quite a bit of waiting to do. The consulting detective had been absent for only three days. </p>
<p>     As the door closed behind him, he raised a hand subconsciously to his face, running his fingers over the bags once more collecting under his eyes. </p>
<p>     John had managed to stave off sleep for roughly that same amount of time. And three days, John learned, could feel like an eternity. When he wasn't busying himself with 8-hour shifts at the surgery, or helping Molly to finally put the London Lobotomer (as the press had dubbed him) in cuffs, he was doing whatever he could to keep himself moving. </p>
<p>     Starting out, most of his activities involved the kitchen. In an attempt to cut back on the takeout he was ordering, he began teaching himself some cooking basics, like how to properly julienne onions or bake chicken without drying it out. </p>
<p>     He successfully made four dishes before deciding to give it a rest; nodding off by the stove wasn't exactly the safest thing to do while cooking. </p>
<p>     He filled his free time with lots of reading, too. For a little while, he was able to sit comfortably in his armchair and have at Sherlock's books. When sitting too long began to prove itself to be a sleeping risk, he opted for pacing through the living room while he read. He didn't mind too much. If it weren't for the noise complaints Mrs Hudson was getting from the downstairs neighbours, he'd likely have kept doing it. </p>
<p>     The third and final kind of busywork he'd found for himself had been cleaning.</p>
<p>     As John walked into the flat, his eyes dragged themselves across the living room. It was as spotless as he had ever seen it. The rug had long since been taken outside and beaten, not a spec of dirt clinging to it. The floors had already been swept and scrubbed twice, and there wasn't a single cobweb left clinging to the curtains.</p>
<p>     He made his way further inside, running a hand along the bookshelves. He took note of the spine of every book his fingers brushed up against, keeping a sharp eye on their titles. Every book was in its right place, now organized alphabetically by title, and when John retracted his hand, there wasn't a trace of dust on it. </p>
<p>     He let out a defeated sigh, not even bothering to double-check the kitchen. He'd just finished up in there before heading out to meet Molly. The coffee beans he'd bought now had a jar by the grinder, the bottom of the sink was actually visible, even all of Sherlock's lab equipment was labelled and tucked neatly away in an empty cupboard. </p>
<p>     There was really nothing else for him to do, nothing that would keep the train rolling. It was unlikely he'd be able to keep it up for much longer, anyway.</p>
<p>     Molly was right. He was exhausted.</p>
<p>     After refilling the jar with freshly ground coffee, John abandoned his coat on top of his armchair and shuffled into his room. He grudgingly laid out on the bed, plucking up the newspaper resting on his nightstand.</p>
<p>     He did his best to still his fingers before jumping into a story about a warehouse fire, his eyes glazing over more and more with every line they passed. </p>
<p>     " I've got about three more days," John muttered to himself, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.</p>
<p>     " Then Sherlock's home."</p>
<p>     John hardly remembered anything about what he read in the paper. He was simply awake one minute, and fast asleep the next. </p>
<p>     ~</p>
<p>     " Do join me, Watson. You're hardly three steps in the room."</p>
<p>     John shifted his weight between his left and right leg, his jaw taut. He looked away from the attending speaking to him, giving the door behind him a longing glance. This rotation always gave him the creeps, that much hadn't changed. But something about today felt very... off. It took nearly every ounce of his will power just to drag himself in the room. </p>
<p>     What he wouldn't give to be stuck on suture duty for the week, instead.</p>
<p>     He grit his teeth, a natural-sounding chuckle still managing to work its way through them as he turned back to face her.   </p>
<p>     " Pardon me for my hesitance. I guess I'm not exactly used to being down here yet."</p>
<p>     " It would seem so, but no worries. Most residents are a little jumpy their first few times in the morgue."</p>
<p>     John turned on his heel, his hands tightly clutching his clipboard as he got his first good look at the room. He was careful to keep his face clean of emotion, although he couldn't help the way his breath got tangled in his throat. </p>
<p>     Half a dozen drains were lined up on the floors, an examination table accompanying each one. Medical scales were scattered here and there by some cupboards, along with the occasional bone saw or pair of rib shears. The attending, who was standing by the counters, was unpackaging new specimen cups and scalpels. </p>
<p>     He'd hardly consider his surroundings jarring, by any means. No, they were relatively tame... so what was it? What was so different this go around?</p>
<p>     As John took a few deep breaths, willing his heart rate to slow, he felt himself recoil. His arm shot up to cover his nose, his curse muffled by his coat sleeve. It should've been painfully obvious, but had only just hit him- the smell. It wasn't the usual scent of preservatives and cleaning solutions, no. It was something absolutely retched. And unfortunately, John could identify where it was coming from. </p>
<p>     The wall to his left held the morgue's refrigerated storage. Most of the doors were closed, thank goodness, but not all. </p>
<p>     Two had been opened. The occupants had been rolled out of the freezer, their bodies unceremoniously concealed with grey tarps. An especially shoddy job had been done covering the body closest to John- the tips of their fingers greeted him from the corner of a tarp. A chill shot down John's spine as he turned to give his full attention to the woman with him.</p>
<p>     " I'm... shouldn't those be closed? It seems like they've been out for a while."</p>
<p>     The attending finished up with the supplies and headed over to him, flipping through a chart of her own. She tutted to herself, shaking her head. Her eyes remained glued to the papers as she continued.</p>
<p>     " Not for today, I'm afraid. I was given special instructions for your time down here."</p>
<p>     " Special instructions aside, leaving bodies out to rot probably breaks some sort of basic procedure." </p>
<p>     " Oh they're a bit odd, let alone for a resident, I agree."</p>
<p>     John's watched as she set down the chart and reached into her lab coat's breast pocket. Much to his surprise, her hand emerged with a pistol. She lazily flicked off the safety and pointed the barrel towards John, her face perfectly indifferent.</p>
<p>     " But it fits the ticket, I'm afraid."</p>
<p>     John could feel the blood rapidly draining from his face. He slowly raked a hand through his hair, his gaze frozen on the attending- Dr Graham, her name tag read. It took him a moment to find his voice.</p>
<p>     " ...What's the gun for?"</p>
<p>     She merely shrugged her shoulders.</p>
<p>     " Encouragement."</p>
<p>     John fought back the lump in his throat and swallowed hard.</p>
<p>     " Why?"</p>
<p>     She cracked a faint smile at that.</p>
<p>     " I know you felt it the moment you walked in- the urge to run. A guilty conscience can be overpowering like that, so I figured this would be a good way to keep you here- " Dr Graham nudged her head towards the bodies.</p>
<p>     " -and take accountability. Now let's get on with it. Go next to the one closest to you."</p>
<p>     Guilty conscience? John refrained from bombarding her with questions and nodded slowly. He could handle that- averting his gaze and taking shallow breaths would get him through it. But he had a feeling that wasn't where all this was going to stop.</p>
<p>     He forced his legs to move forward, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. As he got closer to the tarps, the smell got stronger. He had to stop himself from reacting to it, biting the inside of his cheek to avoid any involuntary noises. </p>
<p>     When he found himself standing at the side of the first body, his stare fixed to the person's exposed neatly manicured fingernails, he came to a halt.</p>
<p>     " Good."</p>
<p>     John heard a 'click' as the gun cocked back.</p>
<p>     " Now remove the tarp, John."</p>
<p>     John felt as though his lungs had frozen over.</p>
<p>     " You said all I had to do was walk over here."</p>
<p>     " That was only the first thing I needed you to do. I think we both figured-"</p>
<p>     John felt cool metal nudge the back of his head. </p>
<p>     " -things wouldn't be as simple as taking a stroll forward."</p>
<p>     John took in a few shaky breaths, his nose only just beginning to acclimate to the stench of death. He'd seen corpses before, this wasn't uncharted territory by any means. So why was his stomach working itself into knots? Why was a deep-seated sense of dread clawing at his throat?</p>
<p>     What made this instance any different?</p>
<p>     John forced the tremor in his arms to still. He took hold of the top corner of the tarp, his eyes glued to his shoes as he began to gingerly peel it back. After what felt like a small eternity, he heard it finally slide to the floor in a plastic heap.</p>
<p>     He quickly retracted his hand, the hairs on his neck standing at attention.</p>
<p>     " Finished, done. Can we put away the gun now?"</p>
<p>     " Tut tut, you aren't finished here yet. We haven't even made our way down the line."</p>
<p>     " What are you talking about?"</p>
<p>     " There's supposed to be educational value in your time down here, John."</p>
<p>     " And that would be... ?"</p>
<p>     " Realizing that your actions have consequences. That your slip-ups have names." </p>
<p>     " Please... what are you going on about?" </p>
<p>     Dr Graham lapsed into silence as she craned her neck to steal a peek at her abandoned chart.</p>
<p>     " Tell me, John. These people here- how did you kill them?"</p>
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